Dreaming in Place of Reality
by Smaug the Writing Dragon
Summary: Based off the Charles Dance TV miniseries. A oneshot with a younger, naive Erik.


**This is a one-shot ****fic**** based on the TV miniseries starring Charles Dance. I loved his interpretation of the Phantom, showing a softer, gentlemanly side to him. ****And his voice was really fun with those dialogue lines. ****Takes place years before the events which bring Christine in.**** Feeding the author is permitted. : ) **

Dreaming in Place of Reality

Gerard Carriere slipped his fingers into the small crevice at the statue's base and pressed the button. He moved to the wall and walked down the steps into the hidden dungeon. Today was Erik's 25th birthday, and he felt obligated to at least acknowledge the fellow's presence. Guilt drove him down those dark stairs more than anything else, more than love or concern for the pitiful wretch. It was partly his fault that Erik existed today.

Erik had no inkling that today was his birthday. He could only guess at his age, and Gerard was not going to reveal the truth; no, that would bring on too many questions. He had been hiding the secret from Erik for 25 years, and he was not going to ruin everything now. Down he wound until he reached the dark lake at the bottom. The boat was waiting for him there, as it had waited the year before, and the year before that.

He found Erik in his massive underground forest. The pitiful creature was resting against a large hardwood, his white-masked face turned upwards towards the heatless light. Supplicating? Resting? Gerard shuffled his feet through the leaves covering the floor, and the eyes turned towards him. There was a soft light in the cool gaze today, almost a friendly light, almost content if Gerard dared to think such a thing. How could one such as this be content?

"Welcome back to my forest of dreams, Carriere," the ghost beckoned a long, elegant hand in the older man's direction, and Gerard crossed over to him. 'Is business going well for us?" The refined voice was so soft that Gerard barely caught the formal question. Gerard nodded and eased himself down a few feet from the dark enigma. He kept a careful, respectful distance from the other man. Erik disliked close contact, always had, and Gerard was fine with that.

He instantly felt guilty for thinking like this. It was not the young man's fault that he had been cursed so. Erik was brilliant, a prodigy, a marvel that kings would have admired, if it were not for his face. His lack of a face, Gerard corrected. He gazed now at the mask that hid those repulsive features and forced himself to smile, catching the tiny flash of white teeth in return. The mouth, strangely enough, was perfect, and out of that perfection came music that tore at his very soul. It reminded him too much of _her_.

"You seem unusually thoughtful today," Erik's melodious voice broke into his thoughts. "I'm surprised. Are there to be no warnings? No berating for my having gone too far as the Opera Ghost? I trust you're feeling well." And he leaned forward, sharp eyes piercing into the manager. Gerard caught the flash of amusement in Erik and shook his head. Erik was indeed in a good mood, and he wished that he could enjoy that mood from a normal man. Alas, but the boy would never be normal, not in any sense of the word.

"Are you so certain that I'm after you?" Gerard finally asked. "I only came to see how you were doing, old friend, and tell you that I've submitted the opera piece." He watched the other man close his eyes and lean back again.

"Well, that is pleasant to hear. Your concern touches me, Carriere, and I feel honored," Gerard heard the softly cutting sarcasm in Erik's voice, and flinched. "I am well, thank you very much. I've been sitting here for some time, perhaps hours. You know, I hardly notice the time when I'm here. Dreams are like that, they can last for hours or seconds, and take the same amount of time." He grinned at Gerard's baffled expression. "Literally, they last the same. I was dreaming just now, I think."

Gerard felt his forced, fake smile fade into a solemn line. "Daydreaming again?" he asked, twisting a finger through his mustache. "Is that healthy?"

The Ghost grinned to show he understood the jesting. "I should like to think so, Carriere. It's the only way to live. You should try it." He barked a short, jerked laugh. "But then, you have an opera house to run; time must be of the essence up there."

"Well," Carriere disliked Erik's tone of voice. It was soft and refined as ever, but he caught a discordant note of bitterness, of envy. "You know you are mostly responsible for this place's upkeep. Don't deny it, Erik. You work as hard as I do."

They sat in silence then, as Erik refused to answer anymore. Carriere found himself despising the unnatural quiet. His eyesight told him he was in a forest, but his ears betrayed a tomb. Death sat beside him, several feet away and eying him through its shining mask. Carriere stood the silence for as long as humanely possible, squirming as the other showed no signs of stirring. Finally, Erik took in his discomfort and sat up a little straighter.

"You know what I was dreaming about?" he asked abruptly. At Carriere's shaking head, he paused. "I was topside earlier today, and I saw one of those lovely creatures again. Don't look so befuddled, Carriere, you know what I'm talking about. Women, my friend. They are intricate little creatures, aren't they?"

Carriere nodded, suddenly freezing up with apprehension. "They can be, very confusing."

"Confusing? I think they must be the most sublime creatures on this earth," Erik cocked his head like a bird of prey. "They are so different from us, size, shape, height. They even act differently, Carriere. I can't get over how, how soft they appear to be, fragile as porcelain. Like little baby birds that need protection. Why else do they hang off our arms so? My pardon, men's arms."

Carriere stared, overcome with pity. He knew how Erik watched the opera house, especially the people coming and going. He knew Erik longed for human contact, longed for conversation and intelligent discussion. He realized that Erik knew very little concerning the opposite gender, for what woman had ever approached him with the intent to speak? This interpretation was so innocent, so naïve that Carriere found himself chuckling inside. Why did women hang off their arms, indeed.

"I do believe they enjoy the presence of men," he explained. "Some of them are in love with a certain man, others are married."

"In love!" Erik shot up straight, eyes flashing. "What must that be like, I wonder? Yes, I've read about that. How the men take the women on their arms and take them strolling down the sidewalks, in their tailcoats and dresses. They window-shop and go to parties, they even hold hands."

Carriere could not stop a snort. "I believe that is not so terribly serious-"

Erik turned his bright eyes on the older man. "Of course it is!" he exclaimed loudly. "Why, I feel I should die of happiness were a woman to take my hand in her own, to love me. To willingly touch a monster's hand-that, Carriere, would be true love. I know I would die! Have you ever had that happen, Carriere? Surely you have."

Carriere raised a hand to calm the wistful ghost. "Yes, long ago, but I remember it as yesterday." Erik leaned forwards, hands trembling with excitement. "It was love, Erik. We would have died for each other, and we lived day to day for each other. But it went wrong in the end, as it so often does."

Erik's mouth dropped open in dismay. "You can't mean that. It could be perfect, if we would work at it. Just make her happy, give her anything she wants. That's what I would do. Give her everything and ask nothing. Her love would be enough." He sighed dramatically. "I can't ever have that, though, can I? No female would ever stand to look at this carcass. For that is what I am, a carcass. Now it is your turn to deny nothing, Carriere."

He stood up abruptly and paced around the small clearing, wringing his gloved hands. "What must it be like? No, don't tell me, Carriere, I should go mad if I knew what secrets lay there. Poor, unhappy Erik. He will never know how a woman holds his hand. He will never go strolling down those lovely, sunny sidewalks. He will never be able to shower her with his affections, if he knew how to begin with."

"They are special creatures," he whispered, dropping down like a sack of flour onto the forest floor, raising a soft puff of dirt from the ground. "So lovely and perfect, so high above me. Angels to be admired, Carriere. I can't touch their hands, but I can worship them from afar, and I can dream. Dreams are my friends. Dreams never hide from me. You know, I dream that someday I will find a special one, one that will love me back."

Carriere held his breath. Poor Erik, poor, sad Erik. He was content to merely admire, knowing he would never have anything more. Never a normal life. "Erik, I'm sorry…" he offered at last.

"Don't be, I very much enjoy my dreams. She takes my hand in my dream, Carriere. And she smiles at me, at my face. And we go walking down those lovely sidewalks. And then I remember myself, and I wake up. It will never happen but for my dreams. I must learn to be content with that."

"I do wonder what it is like," he admitted after a long pause. "To meet one face-to-face, rather face-to-mask, and talk to her. I wonder…but I should expect that will never happen, not for me. Indeed so." He trailed off into a pensive whisper, ignoring the other man.

"Still," a faint smile touched his lips and hovered there. "I do enjoy a good dream, and this _is_ my dream world," he motioned to the eerily silent forest around them, bright clear eyes focusing at last on the opera house manager. The older man smiled an entirely different smile, one of pity and pain for this most miserable of creatures, comforted only by its cruel dreams in a façade of a forest ringed in unfeeling stone.

Gerard rose to his feet and awkwardly patted the younger man's shoulder, gripping the soft black cloth for a second and then releasing him. It was the closest thing to a hug that he would ever feel comfortable giving to Erik, and Erik likely felt the same way. "I…I should return to the top," he shrugged his shoulders at the same time that Erik did. "They might need me, for something. I'll come back if it's important."

"I understand very well, all too well, I fear," the masked man replied. "Yes, they might need you. I will be fine here." He leaned back against the rough bark of his favorite fake tree and sighed. "If it concerns the upcoming opera selection, tell them—something," he chuckled. "Something to make them keep it. Tell them the Ghost wants it so."

"_Oui_, the Ghost," Gerard nodded, and climbed over a large tree root. He took off down the narrow path, never glancing back, hunched over to avoid the branches. The Phantom watched him scurry away and dropped his eyes to the forest floor. No goodbyes were called, and the faux forest became as quiet as before. No birds called, no squirrels chattered at the intruder, simply because it was all a dream.

He knew. There was no use pretending that he did not. Erik knew the reasons for the older man's appearance this time. It was no mere coincidence that had the manager appear on this same day of the year, for as long as Erik could remember. He guessed that some emotion such as guilt or pity drove the manager into these dungeons. The faceless ghost wondered briefly how old he was this day. He had glanced into those eyes that mirrored his own and he knew the truth. Carriere would never bring himself to say it. Just as he would never admit to Erik's parentage, Carriere would never wish something so trivial and useless for Erik. After all, who ever heard of a _Happy Birthday_?

"Someone must have dreamed it up," Erik pulled his cloak tighter to his cold body, and strained his ears. Dreams were worth pursuing, perhaps, when there was no reality to be found. Yes, there, if he listened hard enough, he could hear it. Erik chuckled when he heard the pheasant call again. "Such a nice, wonderful dream it must have been," he told the stuffed bird in his forest.


End file.
